Page 15 of Unspoken

"Let's go, then," I say, my voice stripped of inflection, even as a spark of something else flickers deep within me, a flame trying to catch in a void where warmth has no right to exist.

We move through the ritual of departure, each step measured, each glance loaded. I find Ivan downstairs and he shows me where all the keys are to the vehicles everyone in the house drives.

Silence between Alexander and me as we exit the house is heavy. As if there’s a curtain neither is willing nor able to draw aside. But beneath it all, something stirs—a current that whispers of more than just duty and disdain. A dance of fire and ice played out in stolen looks and words left unspoken.

Contrary to my expectations, Alexander slips into the front seat of the Navigator.

I throw him a questioning glance.

"What?" He shrugs. "You think I’ll let you touch the stereo?"

"Are you even old enough to know what stereo means, Zoomer?"

"Sod off, old man."

"I’m thirty-three."

"That’s what I said, old ma—"

The Navigator’s engine purrs, interrupting the last bit of Alexander’s quip. A low growl that matches the tension in my gut fills the space around us, devouring any other sounds.

We start driving, heading toward the nearest shopping center. I’m not risking taking the little shit to The Shops at Crystals. The Strip is the worst place in all of the Vegas to be at if you have a target on your back.

Alexander's silhouette is sharp against the window, jaw clenched in defiance.

"So, why'd you jump ship to this business?" His voice cuts through the hum of the car sometimes later.

"Because it pays well," I reply, eyes fixed on the road, wishing it were only asphalt I had to navigate.

"Better than being a police officer?" His tone is a mix of mockery and something darker, like a bruise hidden under a sleeve.

"Didn't pay as well." My words are terse, snipped like the end of a smoldering cigarette.

Alexander doesn’t pry further. Instead, he connects his phone to the vehicle’s stereo via Bluetooth and the car fills with the screech of angry guitars and pounding drums. He turns the music all the way up, letting the heavy soundwaves crash over us. It's a deliberate provocation, the volume knob turned as far as his—and mine—patience.

"Can't handle a little noise, old man?" he shouts over the cacophony two songs in.

"Music's fine. It's the company that's giving me a headache," I shoot back, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

"Tell me about it!"

The shopping center's artificial light feels too bright after the pulsating darkness of Sasha's music. He drifts through the aisles, a ghost trailing discontentment. Watches and chains glint under glass cases, catching Sasha's fleeting interest. Each piece examined, then dismissed with a flick of his wrist.

"Find anything you like?" I ask, more out of necessity than interest after we’ve been at it for a couple of hours.

"Hardly," he mutters, picking up a T-shirt with some obscure band's logo emblazoned across the front.

"Suit yourself."

I watch him, the blond hair and lean frame moving listlessly among the racks. His beauty is both conspicuous and unfitting in this temple of consumerism. I'm exhausted by the charade, the pretense of normalcy in a world where I'm employed to guard a man from his own blood. But I don’t have a choice. I follow him to each and every store, playing a role of a companion instead of an obvious babysitter.

"Going to try these on," Alexander finally announces, holding up a couple of shirts like white flags.

"Take your time," I say, though every second spent in this place feels like an eternity.

He disappears into the small hallway in the back with the fitting room sign above. I collapse onto a couch molded by a thousand waiting souls. Time stretches, thin and brittle. The clock ticks, a countdown to an explosion I can feel brewing in the conditioned air of the mall.

My patience is fraying at the edges like worn fabric. Minutes crawl by, each one a weight added to the sinking feeling in my stomach.

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